Netcees - jungle leaves

We are eruptions,
succumbing to numbing ourselves. It's two hundred and twelve degrees of separation. Dusty as hell. Punches of L-shapes from guns on the shelves. Rum and a seltzer, fully excelsior. The mulling and inference. So intellectual. Solely pedestrian.
From Belgrade to Belfast, Nicosia to Doha. A well-phrased hell's maid with a twelve-gauge boca. Potential and apathy, muddled with hypertension diastole, meth and venlafaxine, I'm happily blinded by the goodness gracious'es, and god willings'. Generated by the foot escape and botched feelings, the good-and-great, distraught feelings, the "I would, but wait, I'm not ready, it's not you, it's me," the third wheeling with the rookie waitresses @ Tops diner- pursuant to your goodest faith and palm healing, I'm not fine. I look away to stop reeling in the feelings of "should-have-waited," sibling of "could've-made-it-it's" not easy, like father'd say fullness fades from all beings. It's nauseating- the broken phrases, and constant gating. '98 Cutlass conversations. It's ad hoc acta non verba, bonafide and deo volente. Just Latin verbiage, and Spanish versions of a feeling that's empty. In English, it's preemptive and vicious- trilingual delinquent- a bitch to judicial systemics- amidst the bellowing sickness, collective and cold-blooded, never alone, just Facebook posts of another overdose, touching. It's never a lone suspect-- I fathom life’s an album with no avid features, no father, no teachers, just a Big–Brother -and future casket sleepers. Calloused-fingered miscreants and Avril Lavigne'rs. I've half figured out that what looks like it is, never is half that it seems, no valid procedures, no American dreams, just taxes that bleed, CPAP and desipramine. Enter OPERATION: NUMBMATH - one second you're fatherless the next second you're your father's daily sponge bath. Barely a speck or notation in the scheme of every eclosion, my love, we are aggregations of stellar explosions. We're a hoola hooping' past occasion, a Yokohama oculus, a Futurama populuxe, a metaverse and Honda whip, a ruler in a math equation, the nuisance of your last relation, a nuance to the calculations, the residue on your bedding too a supernova masturbation. Everything you ever loved is a heat transfer, I want my silent outcries to buzz until my teeth fracture. I've dot-commed and dot org’ed the last domaine- this is the soot that disrupts- crack cocaine. You do-gooders and Klu- Kluxxers are too dumb and too rubber- minded. Generation do nothing meets generation too touchy. Too feely and too lovey. I want to throw haymakers; hate speech; lay ether, generation Gatekeepers vs daterapers. Touché to all bastards, the Frantz Fanon and lake waders who paved the way, ridding the gaze of waste layers, ironic cause touché has Che in it. Even if you're early, you're a day late- it's the heart-throbbers vs the pacemakers, and kick ass, chew gum and take-namers, vs. kiss-assing hoodlums and naysayers. The quiet-minded, loud-mouther who wants to drink water for seven godless days without drowning. The Rottweiler, a tall glass of salt for lunch for the salt miners. Saw a chameleon die and change colors, saw a human just like that---the same culture. I'm An' Agassi before Roger, before Dramamine, our nine to fives are black comedies. Twiddle Dum meets Twiddle Dee, all I see is dying chameleons fading in jungle leaves